It Could Be Worse
by OnceMoreAndAgain
Summary: Westeros has been thrown into the chaos of an all out war and neither the Assassins nor the Templars can point fingers at each other for this one. Trouble brews across the Narrow Sea and Winter is still Coming. Random Collection of Half-Formed Ideas for an ASOIAFxAC crossover. Seriously I don't even know what I was thinking.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: I was re-reading the ASOIAF books and was thinking about how messed up their world would be if they had Templars and Assassins fighting their own wars there too. Also considering how I'd like it a lot if there was a situation in history that neither group had a hand in, just for the complete: WTF that would happen on both sides. I figured that the ASOIAF universe would give them plenty of those. Especially Joffrey, he gave EVERYBODY that feeling of sheer "OMGWTF just happened?!".**

**Now I'm just hoping that someone else with a better head for both ASOIAF and Assassin's Creed character voices comes along and writes an awesome fic for a universe like this.**

**Should also be noted that I have not watched the 'Game of Thrones' TV series. I read the books a long time before that came out and I like the images of the characters I have in my head...also rage-quitted the moment I saw that most of the Starks were not red-heads. **

**This is intended to be a couple of one-shots, one for each Ancestor and their different regions of the world but if I get more ideas, it may turn into an AU like thingamajig. **

* * *

To be entirely honest they had seen this chaos coming. Altair Ibn-la-Ahad, Grandmaster of the Assassin Brotherhood puts a hand to his brow and sighs as he reads the wrinkled, well-travelled letter in front of him.

Things had been much simpler when he was only in charge of his (relatively) small corner of the world. He had his hands full with both Slaver's Bay and the Valyrian Peninsula and whatever madness their people and the Templars decided to throw at them.

As happy as he is that the Brotherhood has spread and flourished and the people of his cities being allowed to live in relative peace for the past twenty something-odd years, it does nothing to change the facts. The whole world has been set aflame and the Assassins have failed to stop it.

It is not his fault, but he takes the war and anarchy in far off Westeros as personally and as hard as if it is a personal failure. As great of a personal failure of his as that fateful mission at the Temple.

If it is any consolation at all, the letter on his desk tells him sardonically, the Templars had nothing to do with this disaster at all and are as equally frustrated, flummoxed and unhappy with it as they are.

Altair sighs as he places the letter down and moves away from his desk to stare out towards the bustling marketplace and think. He cannot blame the Westeros Assassins - for they have only far too recently begun to recover from their tragedy.

Few in number and based far away from the Templar stronghold that is King's Landing, Achilles has his hands full with his _novice_ - Malik has repeatedly said that he does not care that the boy wears the robes or can wield the blades, the child is a _novice - _and the rapidly growing nightmare that is the North and Agaté and his apprentice are trapped in Dorne and trying to keep the Templars at bay.

He cannot even blame the Templars for this madness either - the blame for this goes back and back and back to the grudges between houses and their fathers and their mothers. Though it seems easy enough to place the spark for this disaster at young King Joffrey's feet.

Altair sighs. He is not a young man any more - has not been a young man since even before Robert's Rebellion in Westeros - and as much as he would love to hop on a boat, cross the Narrow Sea and _fix _this nightmare, he cannot. Not with the Targaryen and her dragons on the march.

The Assassins are probably some of the very few that were decidedly _unsurprised _when dragons had suddenly stopped being extinct. In fact, the Assassins - and Altair personally - had gone to great lengths to find those rocks and ensure that those eggs made their way into the right hands.

The Grandmaster had seen it a long time ago. The Targaryens were said to bring only fire and blood and leave ashes in their wake - and while normally the Assassins would not stand for that type of devastation, Danaerys seemed to thankfully take more after her brother Rhaegar than her father - at least as far as they had seen - and there were greater things at stake.

The Starks of Winterfell had the words, something he had seen oft repeated in not only his own experience but also the letters from Achilles, Ezio and even Shao Jun had all found, repeated across the world in an ominous mantra.

_Winter is Coming_.

And while Altair could not say that he had ever truly experienced winter, living in the hot and arid fortress of Masyaf, he had seen what was approaching.

The Apple had shown him what was coming - had shown them all a great many things. The spherical relics that were older than maybe even the Doom of Valyria, stronger than Valyrian steel and possessed of mystical powers - only Altair and Ezio had proven to be immune to their mind-altering effects and both Mentors had seen similar things upon contact with the artifacts.

_Winter is Coming_. Wights, the Others, fire and obsidian, the Doom of Valyria and hundreds of thousands of things that neither man could understand.

They understood the key points. When the War in the North truly began, they would need to be ready for it, that and for Desmond the Prophet- whoever he was.

"Father," a voice at his shoulder speaks, and Altair nods, turning away from the window to look at his eldest son and his brother in all but blood, who is seething in anger and frustration, scowling even more than usual.

"Brother, if you do not stop frowning so much, your face will get stuck that way," Altair says lightly, a smirk twitching about his scarred lips. He is rewarded with a disparaging look - _really is that the best you can come up with? - _before the lecture begins again.

"This is _madness _Altair," Malik repeats for what must be the hundredth time. "The dragon queen will not agree to _this_!" he declares emphatically slamming the document Altair had drafted upon the desk.

"We have discussed this matter a thousand times Malik. My answer remains the same. I will not allow Masyaf to come under attack, not again," Altair is firm on that matter.

Never again. He had put the entire Brotherhood in peril in his foolishness and pride and he had seen his home under attack and he would not permit the Targaryen, in her ignorance to harm it. Not that she could conquer the Essosian Assassins' stronghold, even with her dragons.

"And mine has not changed either!" Malik snarls back at him. "It is foolishness to believe that the Targaryen will accept the truth."

"Nothing is true, brother," Altair says as he heads for the door, pulling his hood up and over his grey hair. "And it is not her acceptance I seek, but her understanding. If it bothers you so much, come with me." He says pausing at the door of his office.

"And let the novices run roughshod over Masyaf?" the one-armed man says blandly, though Altair knows his brother well enough that he knows that the King of Swords is considering it, though he has not been fully convinced yet.

"Yusuf can manage their training without us." Altair shrugs.

"Masyaf will be nothing but a smoking crater if we leave that one in charge." his oldest friend says, thoroughly unimpressed by Altair's decision making skills. Darim also has a skeptical look on his face.

"Masyaf has run herself well in our absence before Malik, it is only for a few weeks at most, and Sef can ensure we have a home to return to when this mission is complete. You have oft said that neither I nor Maria have a head for diplomacy." Altair says lightly, and he sees the way Malik's scowl turns almost fond, as he throws his hand up in the air.

"Fine! Someone needs to keep you novices in line!"

* * *

- 3 years later-

It comes as a bit of a surprise when just as she believed that all audiences were over, an odd looking group of travelers came marching into the mostly empty throne room. Dressed in white and grey robes, though one wears a dark coat atop his robes they looked like a small group of hooded scholars, except by the way Ser Barristan puts his hand to his sword, she knows that scholars or not, these four are not what they seem. Most obviously seen by the one with the pinned up sleeve. How, exactly does a scholar lose an arm?

"Safety and peace, _khaleesi_." the leader of the scholars says in a lightly accented Valyrian as he removes his hood to reveal a rather handsome older man with a full head of grey hair and bright, sharp golden brown eyes. A distinct and sharp scar runs across his lips and she knows for sure that these are no scholars.

"An odd greeting," she says, noting that none of them have bowed before her, nor how thoroughly they ignore the dragons at her side, focusing entirely on her and her alone. "But a good one. Who are you and what is that you would ask of the blood of the dragon?"

"I would congratulate you khaleesi," the man says, a hint of a smirk playing at his scarred mouth. "You have managed to accomplish what we could not in hundreds of years," he says, and there is a slight gasp that comes from some of the Meereen in her court all have looks of awe and horror on their faces.

"Assassins!" is the shout that grows around them, and many of her men draw their swords.

"Please," the smallest assassin says with a huff, and Dany is surprised to discover a woman amongst their number. "If we had wanted any of you dead, you would not be breathing," her Valyrian with a distinct Westerosi accent to it.

"Assassins?" Dany asks the Assassin curiously. He intends her no harm, that much is evident in how he has shown her his face and his utterly non-threatening stance. Though one of his companions seems on edge at all the blades being pointed their way.

"A Brotherhood, khaleesi," Skahaz informs her. "Of thieves, whores and murderers."

"A group, who fights on behalf of those who cannot fight themselves, usually by assassinating those they deem tyrants," Ser Barristan says, his grip on his sword not loosening in the slightest. So while that was a commendable goal, they were still a danger to her.

Dany turns to the unhooded man whose expression has become completely unreadable.

"And who are you, Assassin?"

"Contrary to what the Meereen might tell you, we fight for peace in all things. For men and women of any and all walks of life to have free will. For the people of the world to have the ability to make choices and mistakes, for the growth of mankind in the hopes of a better future." The man says firmly. "We are particularly despised here, as we have a particular hatred for slavery of any kind. As for my name, I am Altair Ibn-la-Ahad." the man says with a slight inclination of his head.

She supposes that is as close to a bow she is going to get from these Assassins.

"And why have you come here, if not to kill me, then why come before me at all?"

"Our visit has many purposes. In truth we would have liked to contact you much, much earlier," Altair lets a wry grin appear on his face. "But you are a very busy woman _khaleesi _and our enemies do not rest. First we would offer our congratulations and gratitude in freeing the people of Meereen. Second we came to warn you. You have far more than just Harpy sons to deal with. Our enemies will stop at nothing to keep you and your dragons from reaching Westeros."

"And what interest have you Assassins in seeing that I reclaim what is rightfully mine?" she asks, wary of the sudden flash of something dark and terrifying in the Assassin's face as he speaks.

"The Assassins have no interest in who sits upon the Iron Throne so long as they do not _make _it our concern." Altair says evenly. "The third reason we came before you was to remove the traitors in your midst. Our fourth reason, was to discuss terms."

"Terms?" Danaerys repeats, to which the Assassin nods once. "Of what, exactly?"

"Of your surrender."

* * *

It ends up going much better than he would have thought after the initial outrage and angry outbursts that erupted after Altair's tactless and blunt delivery. It is only through Darim's timely intervention, Malik's quick thinking and a strategic death that not only saves the lives of thousands, but shows everyone that even an old Assassin missing an arm is no less deadly, that they manage to obtain a semi-private audience with the Targaryen Queen with a few of her Unsullied and her Lord Commander of her Queensguard, who continues to watch them with a wary eye.

It cannot be helped that Barristan does not fully trust them - he remembers the Assassins and their repeated attempts upon the Mad King's life. Though in all honesty, the Templars had wanted Aerys dead as well, but their desire to destroy the Assassins of Westeros had been greater.

Selmy also remembers how Altair and his family had helped him locate his Queen and assisted in saving her life.

Their actions could be confusing, Malik acknowledges, so long as one did not expand their minds to look at the larger picture and shape of things.

The Assassins have no allegiance to any one group. Their allegiance is to the Creed and to those who did not have the strength, abilities, resources or knowledge to speak out against those who abused their power, Altair explains to the Targaryen Queen.

The people of Meereen, Qarth, and the Seven Kingdoms do not care who rules them, only that they be able to live their lives without fear and shackles.

Malik lets Altair speak of the Creed and the vision he has for the world, the Grandmaster is surprisingly eloquent and charismatic when he speaks of his dream, and it is up to Malik to try and convince the Dragon Queen to agree to the madness Altair has written up.

He throws a glare the Grandmaster's way as the Queen and her Knight frown at the document placed in front of them and shudders. He has read the dire reports coming in from Achilles and Connor in Westeros. _Winter is Coming. _They can only hope that they will be ready.

* * *

**Just as a quick reference regarding ages:**

**Altair, Maria and Malik - mid-60s**

**Ezio, Haytham - late 40s**

**Connor - 17-20 (there is a 3 year time gap)**

**What is it that Altair has written that is considered madness? I have no idea. Really. I don't. Haven't thought that part through yet. Really there is a lot I have not thought about.**

**Anyway, next up is Ezio and the Free Cities.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note: So as I've always kind of pictured the Free Cities, or at least Braavos as a sort of Venice/Italy like place, and the flamboyant nature of the Braavosi and the fact that 'water dancing' seems a lot like fencing and kind of always thought of it as a sort of Renaissance-like kind of place. **

* * *

When Ezio Auditore walks the canals of Braavos the man is generally given a wide berth. It is well known that the hooded Eagle is an assassin, and rumours run rampant that he is in fact one of the Faceless Men - which is a damnable lie. This pretty face is his one good point, as his brother Federico had put it oh-so-very long ago. He would not trade this face for any other in the world.

Contrary to popular belief, the Assassins of Braavos were not responsible for every murder or accident that occurred in the Free Cities. Nor were they to _ever _be confused for the Faceless Men, no matter what the rumours spun about how they disappeared into crowds.

The Braavosi Assassins had somewhat of a tacit agreement with the Faceless Men. They would not interfere in each others affairs, but would work together when necessary - which essentially worked out to be that they would not kill each other and that some aspects of training would be done by their respective Orders.

Fundamentally the Assassins detested the Faceless Men on principle. To discard one's identity was simply something that made them exactly what the Templar's wanted. It also did not help that the rich and powerful tended to want those the Assassins wished to protect dead, and the Faceless Men made it much easier for the Templars, given how ridiculously rich and powerful they tended to be.

Then again the Faceless Men had made the price of killing any known Assassin so ludicrously high that no Templar could hope to ever have either himself, Altair or any of those under their command murdered. They also made the cost for lesser known Assassins perhaps a good deal higher than what most men would be willing or capable of paying. It worked out in a similar manner in that the Faceless Men would not take out contracts on Templars either.

Unlike the Templars, the Assassins were never going to use the Faceless Men to achieve their goals. If one was going to kill a man, you owed it to him to do the deed yourself, and the dead deserved to know exactly why. Though in one of his blacker moods, if it was possible, Ezio would forgo his personal feelings and desire for revenge and quite happily settle for having a Faceless Man dispense with the Borgia before reminding himself that the blade needed to slit Cesare's throat needed to be his own.

In a similar show of neutrality, the Assassins never pointed out Faceless Men or went after them. It rankled the House of Black and White somewhat that well-trained Assassins, Ezio especially, could _always_ pick them out of a crowd no matter how they changed their faces and names.

Training the Faceless Men alongside his eaglet novices always left a bad taste in his mouth, but it was a necessary sacrifice he made to keep the peace in Braavos.

The magic of the House of Black and White fascinates the novices, and many approach him after their training on the Isle of the Gods with the idea of its use as a tool in their assassinations until he sits them down and explains exactly why the Assassins will _never _use that vile sorcery.

Perched at the top of the Temple of the Moonsingers, Ezio reads the letters that have finally made their way to him in the darkness as he waits. The lack of light does not bother him, his _talent _as his father used to call it does not need light for him to see. He is however, more than a little horrified, as the noise his novices make as they climb to reach him is astounding. He leaves for one week, _one week _to Lorath for a meeting with Niccolo and they all become lazy. It is a miracle in fact that none of them have been spotted yet.

A flash of blue in the corner of his vision has him tucking the letters away and a smirk on full display as he regards tonights students. The Stark girl is amongst them today, shining gold beneath the vision of his eagle.

She is not sure exactly what is to occur tonight, that much is obvious from her stance. She likely believes that she is merely searching out the Eagle of Braavos for her training in information gathering at the House of Black and White, learning to be _no one_.

It will take her a long time to manage that, Ezio thinks, her eyes tell him and everyone who cares to look, far too much. He looks at her and sees a dirty young noble girl who has had enough grief and tragedy to last three lifetimes, a girl who has lost everything that mattered and clings to vengeance and survival with a mule-headed stubbornness that would make a stone proud.

Her eyes are so much like his own that it is frightening in a way.

She does not yet know of the Auditore name - shame on her, but she will learn.

"You," he says pointing a finger sternly at Cat of the Canals' face. "Are late."

He watches the surprise cross her face, before continuing. "I expected you to be here three days ago. And the clams you sold me tasted terrible," he says with mock disgust, while his novices giggle and chuckle amongst themselves. "Are you here to learn my secrets?"

"Just so. I am here to learn," Arya Stark says in utterly atrocious sounding Braavosi, her jaw taking on a stubborn and petulant set to it, which he pokes at rather firmly.

"Your accent is atrocious, Lady Stark," he says in perfectly unaccented Common Tongue and grins at the surprise that crosses her face that she fights a losing battle to conceal. "Forel taught you well, but an elephant would have made less noise climbing up here. That goes for _all _of you, especially _you _Antonio." he switches back to Braavosi as he scolds his hooded novices as they begin to chatter amongst themselves.

"What are we learning today Mentor?" one of the younger novices ask.

"A key skill that all who wish to be Assassins must have complete mastery over should they ever hope to enter the Brotherhood." He smirks as he sees the light of expectation go up in all of the novices eyes. "Tonight, you are going to learn how to run."

* * *

Cat of the Canals has heard of a man dressed in white and red who could vanish into any crowd and make anyone vanish from the crowd- the Eagle he was called, for the distinct silhouette of his hood. The Kindly Man had smiled when she had first brought news of the Eagle to him and had suggested she seek out this Braavosi Eagle. It had taken her two days to learn more of where she might find the Eagle - few if any of the men in Ragman's Harbour knew anything of him. It was a pickpocket that had told her to ask the Fox should she want to meet with the Eagle or to speak with the madame of the Rose, a brothel near the Purple Harbour.

She ends up not finding the Eagle before the Eagle finds her in Ragman's Harbour. The hooded man simply walks into the harbour dressed in white and red, and buys clams from her without any fuss and continues on his way through the streets chatting with the sailors and laughing with them as if they are all old friends, before vanishing without a trace.

She discovers the meeting following a young man who wears a white hood similar to the Eagle's into the Isle of the Gods and somehow manages to climb the Temple of the Moonsingers to see the Eagle waiting severely there. He knows _exactly _who she is, though neither he nor his students react to it with more than a shrug and a sigh.

They are the Assassins Brotherhood, she hears the man say, lecturing them all, and ignores the one girl standing on the rooftops with them without a hood. Not all murderers are Assassins, not all cutthroats are of the Brotherhood.

He lectures them about their Creed: That Nothing is True and Everything is Permitted. There are three core tenets to their life.

Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Hide in plain sight, be one with the crowd. Never compromise the Brotherhood.

A grim smirk crosses his scarred lips at the second tenet, and his eyes lock with the girl who is desperately trying to be no one, and most definitely not Arya Stark who chews her lip when she thinks.

And then the evening's lesson begins. He is going to teach them, the Eagle tells them, how to run. It is difficult to be one with a crowd should one find themselves in a deserted sept with nothing but the cold corpse of a priest, a bloody knife and a contingent of angry knights at the door. Escaping from guards, he tells them will be a lesson for another night. They conceal their faces to avoid recognition, but it is also however, incredibly suspicious looking anywhere outside of the Northern parts of Westeros, where the land is almost perpetually cold, or the hot and arid regions of Dorne or Slaver's Bay and the Valyrian Peninsula, where people must hide from the sun. Not until they have mastery over their faces will they no longer need the hoods.

When asked why the Mentor maintains his cowl, if he no longer needs it, he answers that it is so that the women do not flock to him and he will not be forced to duel a bravo every three paces. Which brings him to his next point.

Streets can become crowded and blocked, and unwanted attention is easy to gain especially on the streets of Braavos. Which is why he is teaching them how to run.

"And _quietly_," the Eagle says with pointed looks towards some of his students. "Stealth is key when you are making an escape or on a tail. Now, follow me." he says, a smile spreading on his face. "If you can, that is."

And swifter than a deer and even quieter than a shadow, the man is gone, though the girl manages to catch a glimpse of his white coattails, spread behind him like the tail feathers of an eagle as he dives off of the Temple roof, landing in a cart full of flowers before hopping out and dashing away from them. Cat of the Canals and the Assassin fledglings follow without a shred of hesitation.

The Assassin students are remarkably tight-lipped about the Eagle, though it could be that they are merely out of breath as they try and keep up with their Mentor as he _flies _across the rooftops of Braavos and canals of the city. Arya, or Cat or whoever she is - she does not know at this point - as she chases after the Eagle. She does not understand how the man can land so lightly on his feet, making barely a sound as he moves swiftly over buildings, vaulting over chimneys and scaling the walls, leaping from street to street over canals.

Syrio must have had this man in mind when he wanted her to move as swift as a deer and quiet as a shadow she thinks as she learns to make softer landings and quieter steps as she chases after the Eagle. She learns to see the rooftops as roads and streets every bit as intricate as the canals, she loses track of where she is as she continues to chase the Eagle.

She does not know where she is until he finally stops and it is only after she has caught her breath that she realizes they are back at the Isle of the Gods, in front of the House of Black and White and that the white-beak hooded apprentices have all vanished and it is only her and the Eagle.

"It is truly a pity," the Eagle sighs, and it is entirely unfair that a man of his age can run around like that and not even be winded. "You would have made an excellent Assassin. You did very well. Not many can take that first leap as easily as you did." He ruffles her hair before looking up towards something that only he can see, for she cannot see what he is squinting at in the darkness. "The next lesson will be in a week's time...If you can find it." he says with a chuckle before suddenly vanishing, though she looks up in time to see his coattails disappear over the rooftops.

Her report to the Kindly Man of what she has learned is a short one.

She learned of the Assassin Brotherhood and their Creed

She learned of a man who could move as swifter than a deer and quieter than a shadow.

She learned how to run.

* * *

**Yeah so Syrio Forel was TOTALLY an Assassin or at least in this 'verse he is and I still maintain that he is TOTALLY JUST HIDING in canon. I don't think I've got a good feel for Ezio's voice...or any of the characters really. And if I keep this up, Ezio may totally recruit steal from the Faceless Men.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Note: I'm having way too much fun with the 'Westeros' Assassins. Mainly because Connor is such a sweetheart and yeah. He and the direwolves would get along famously. **

* * *

Connor Snow is not the boy's real name. The name was given to him in honour and memory of Achilles' own long dead son, and also due to the fact that the boy's birth name remains, to this day impossible for him to pronounce.

It is difficult keeping the boy in hand as their way through King's Landing. It was bad enough simply making their way here, where the boy had 'made friends' with all manner of creatures - a gods blessed direwolf! - in the southron lands. Achilles had no doubts that left to his own devices, the boy would end up wandering off into Flea's Bottom and having to slaughter his way out again. The boy has a talent for wholesale bloodshed and violence, it is in his blood after all, Achilles thinks bitterly, having had the misfortune of meeting Lord Haytham Kenway years and years ago. Put the boy in front of a raiding party with nothing but that solidly made tomahawk of his and he could make short work of all of them. Allow the boy a few more years to grow, and he could best any Knight and perhaps maybe even the Kingslayer or the Hound (Achilles does not believe that skill of any sort will be enough to defeat the Mountain however).

Connor is however, possessed of the malady known as youth, and remains inexperienced and stubbornly naive about the nature of man.

As it stands, the boy remains distracted trying to look at everyone and everything in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and the chaos of a big city.

"One could spend a thousand lifetimes exploring this city and never be able to claim true knowledge of it." the boy exclaims and Achilles has to hit the boy with his cane in order to get him to pay attention. They have errands to run, and when they finish there is a crowd gathering at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, and an investigation is in order.

Ned Stark - Hand of the King, is to confess to treason and Seven knows what else and join his brother and bastard on the Wall.

A quick and tidy solution to House Lannister's and the Templars' problems now that Robert was dead.

It is not right, Connor had said. The man is a good man. Honourable, innocent of the crimes placed upon his head. Clearly the people can be made to understand this.

Having lived his life in the relative isolation of their Valley in the Wolfswood, the young Kanien'keha:ka has never seen the magic Lannister gold can have.

Connor spots his father even in this ridiculous crowd, and Achilles makes note to mention his suspicions to Grandmasters Altair and Ezio of Connor's unnaturally keen vision and instincts which are reminiscent of their own. The boy's father means nothing but trouble so Achilles sends the boy after Haytham's contact, slowly making his way towards the front of the crowd.

Achilles remains unsure as to whether or not Tywin Lannister's children are a part of the Templar Order. Much Templar grief could have been averted had Jaime Lannister simply declared his father King after Aerys' murder, the sister Cersei however, if not actually a Templar is just as bad as one if Achilles is correct in his assessment of her. The dwarf, Tywin Lannister writ small is thankfully _not_ a Templar, and had the old man been one to believe in a god of any kind, he would thank the heavens for small mercies.

He is not close enough to hear the pronouncement, but he will swear until the day he dies, that the Stark girls' screams remain the loudest and most heart-breaking sounds he has ever heard.

* * *

When Ned Stark's head rolled, Haytham Kenway could only stare in shock. This was _not _how it was supposed to happen. Yes, the Templars wanted the Lord of Winterfell dead, but not like _this_.

A discrete knife in the back on the way to the Wall. Poison masked by illness. A _bear_ attack if necessary, but something subtle and unlikely to draw suspicion something that could be writ off as an 'accident'.

Not _murdered _in a public _spectacle_ that would infuriate the Northern Lords and plunge the Seven Kingdoms into war once more.

The Stark girl's screaming still manages itself to be heard beneath the cheering of the crowd - most of whom have no idea that Stark's murder will mean war with the North and give Renly and Stannis even more allies.

The Seven Kingdoms were no stranger to having a child sit the Iron Throne - but if the first few actions Joffrey First of his Name were to be any indication of the boy's rule, Haytham was not inclined to let him sit it much longer.

Tywin would of course disagree and refuse to allow Haytham to have his grandson quietly put down. He would likely insist that he could keep the boy in hand - though how he would do so while fighting a war in the Riverlands was unlikely. And it was not like the boy's _mother _would be much help, blind as she is to the monster she calls a son.

It was at times like this that Haytham wishes he had not been so thorough in crushing the Assassins. He would be willing to botch a situation and allow one of them to slip through and deal with the brat. At least then he could have a wily adversary to blame for it.

And it is only as the thought crosses his mind does he realize the full gravity of the situation.

This was a complete and utter nightmare and it will only get worse.

He recovers quickly however, scanning the crowd with his second vision, flooding his sight with white outlines and the odd blue and red tinge. It is the momentary glimpse of gold that calls his attention.

"Charles," he snaps and his second is at his side in an instant, just as the last flickers fade out and he only catches a glimpse of black hair and piercing, almost familiar eyes.

There is little chance of whoever he has just caught a glimpse of being related to Cersei's brat's folly, but Haytham has long trusted this vision of his and knows that whoever he had just seen is important, or will be important to him in the future.

"Make sure nothing untoward happens to Sansa Stark," he tells his protege calmly. "Ah, and tell Cersei I'd like to have a _word _with her son." It is evident enough in Haytham's tone that when he says 'word' he means scold, threaten and likely scare the boy within a hairs-breadth of his life. It is highly unlikely that she will agree, but his displeasure _will _be known. Charles is quick to leave, the Grandmaster's anger, while rare and difficult to rouse, is as formidable and dangerous as a Targaryen's.

He scans the crowd again, hoping to see that faint glimmer of gold, but all he sees is a sea of white, insignificance.

The last person his eyes had painted that colour was from a lifetime ago. For not the first, nor the last time, he wondered what his life might have been like had he stayed with her in that snowy Northern cave.

* * *

**Author Note: Yeah so no Connor POV here. That'll be next once I figure out where, exactly, I am putting him. The Wall? The Brotherhood without Banners?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Note: Connor is going to be a VERY busy boy in this universe. I am most definitely going to take liberties with how fast Connor can travel across the Seven Kingdoms (he's got Fast Travel Points, obviously)**

* * *

Connor acknowledges that he is different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms and accepts and embraces these differences proudly. He is of the Kanien'keha:ka, a protector of the sacred ground and he wears his tribal adornments of patterned woven armbands and feathers with pride. His complexion makes him a bit of an oddity outside of his home valley and his bastard name - even if it is _not _his real name - a source for insult and derision. Most would consider him little more than a wildling were it not for the strong resemblance he bears of his father - who if the tales are to be believed, carries blood older than the Doom of Valyria, older than the Targaryens themselves.

He is proud of his differences, but some of them can be more than a little embarrassing.

The young King in the North and all his banner men stare in shock at the hooded man in front of them completely _surrounded _by animals of all shapes and sizes begging for attention from the stranger. Even the King's own _direwolf _is amongst the crowd of foxes, rabbits, birds and horses demanding ear scratches, soft words and belly rubs.

Connor smiles slightly, one part rueful, three parts embarrassed and all sincere as he cedes to the demands of the creatures. He is not quite sure why he sometimes has this particular effect on animals, why at times they will turn intelligent eyes towards him and listen. Why wolves have always treated him like one of their own.

As a child, he had often enjoyed the company of animals within their valley, and it had been considered strange then too, how beloved by the wolves Kaniehti:io's son is.

Connor merely acknowledges the wolf in him simply as a piece of his heritage as he does his eagle eyes.

It takes some time but he finally manages to regain his feet, the direwolf that calls himself The Grey Wind licking his blood stained hand as he stands.

Connor's eyes flick back and forth from the crowd of animals and the direwolf at his side, to the painfuly blank expression of the North men and King Robb, to the dead body of Willas of John's Town and back again.

He could try to explain - they are confused, and do not understand, having only heard snatches of his conversation with the Templar. He could explain why he dropped out of a tree twenty feet tall to stab the man with his hidden blades as he spoke with the Young Wolf before the animals erupted from the nearby woods to surround him, but time is not a luxury Connor has.

Though the King in the North and many of his bannermen shine blue under vision of his eagle, there is far too much red and he does not like nor _trust _the Boltons.

He pats Grey Wind's ears, earning himself another lick, before he drops low and sets a hand to the ground, dodging the arrow aimed for his heart, and pushes himself into a sprint.

The Young Wolf bellows for his men to stand down, for Connor to stop, but Connor is already moving and there are men in pursuit of him. The direwolf stops some with a low snarl, but the braver, more dedicated chase after him, but Ratonhaké:ton leaps up into the safety of the trees, knowing even in these foreign woods how exactly to balance on the curve of fallen timber, and quickly makes his way to disappear.

A howl of victory from the direwolf goes up, and the wolf in him finds itself answering back with his own.

* * *

"I knew there was more to you than just a pretty face, Grandpré!" the Sand Snake exclaims triumphantly.

Aveline whirls around, hiding her hands behind her back, desperately rubbing the blood off of her hands and into the folds of her gown. Gerald chokes on his own words as he tries to say _something _while Aveline wonders how, by the Seven is she going to explain any of this to her Mentor.

* * *

**A/N: Meanwhile in Dorne, Aveline goes to parties and gives Agate ten times more headaches than Achilles could ever imagine.**

**I figured that I'd have to rework some peoples names to fit the Westeros naming/spelling conventions. (William Johnston = Willas of John's Town, Duncan Little = Duncan the Small , Stephane Chapheau = Mad Hat Steffan, Benjamin Church = Maester Benjen Church ...yeah IDK)**

**I've got a few more random snippets in mind, that are most definitely not in chronological order, but will all be sorta related to one another. **

**Up Next: A cat turns into a wolf and decides to give being an eagle a try.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note: once again, don't expect any of these to make chronological sense.**

* * *

Cat of the Canals slumps to the ground paralyzed in shock as the Eagle dispatches the last of her attackers with an almost careless flick of his wrist, a blade sliding out of his bracer to slit the man's throat.

"You," the Eagle points a reprimanding finger sternly in her face. "Need to be more careful, Arya Stark."

"That's not my name," Cat is quick to deny just as she denied the accusation leveled at her by the strange bravo who now lies dead in an alleyway - _A Lannister _a part of her whispers - that led to all of this, but her hooded rescuer cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It is who you _are," _he says harshly, and his eyes flash dangerously beneath his hood. "You can wear as many faces, and run as far as you like little she-wolf, but you are the daughter of a murdered man and sister to murdered brothers and your heart is _screaming _for vengeance. That fact will not change. You are the blood of the North and no sorcery will ever be able to hide that." He speaks with fire in his eyes and his voice thick with emotion that she finds that she cannot find any words to speak.

"How did they find me?" Arya Stark whispers to herself before looking up towards the Eagle for guidance the way his fledgling Assassins do. Like he has all the answers in the world.

His face, so stern and hard just seconds before slips into the easy, scarred smirk of the Assassin Mentor that Cat of the Canals is far more familiar with.

"They were not Lannisters, _principessa. A_nd they found you very much the way I found you. Quite easily." he grins.

She is not able to do much more than glare or form a response as the Eagle who lets out a piercing whistle, and suddenly there are two more people in the alleyway.

"Mentor," the smaller of the two who wears a grey hood says respectfully.

"Auditore," the other nods gruffly towards the Eagle in acknowledgment and Arya's eyes grow as wide as saucers.

The name Auditore is famous in the Free Cities. A mildly successful banking family that had been branded traitors and all the men given to the fires of the Red Priests - except one who had disappeared into the crowd swearing vengeance against the men responsible for all to hear.

The Eagle was Ezio Auditore. Leader of the Assassin Brotherhood,the most wanted man in the entire _history _of the Free Cities and Arya cannot believe how _stupid _she is to have not put the tales of the Assassin and the Auditore together.

"Send word to Fiora and Niccolo. We need to know what interest the Borgia could possibly have in this. If Cesare is in contact with Kenway..." the Eagle's head whips around to stare at the alleyway entrance before grabbing Arya's wrist and hauling her to her feet.

"That would be unpleasant for us to deal with. And have someone tell the old wizard that his wolf pup is unlikely to return."

Arya lets out an indignant noise as the two Assassins vanish as silently as they came, but anything she is about to say is brushed off with the Eagle's next words.

"The choice is yours, little wolf," he says. "You can return to the House of Black and White and learn to wear other people's faces and hide for the rest of your life as no one." He leans in close, his eyes seemingly glowing gold beneath his hood. "Or you can find your own way as Arya Stark of Winterfell."

Arya is silent for a moment before she stares back, unafraid and her eyes full of fire as she makes her choice.

"Teach me to be an eagle."

The Eagle of Braavos laughs at that and ruffles her hair, an almost nostalgic look on his face.

"Syrio was right about you. I suppose now is as good a time as any for the next lesson."

* * *

**author note: Working out what exactly happened to the Auditore family in this universe was tricky...and since there needs to be the 'Templars using religion' angle, well put it this way. Do the people running the religion all about setting people on fire _seem _like a nice bunch? It also makes Ezio's brothers deaths far more gruesome and traumatizing. **

**Next: Connor and the Brotherhood Without Banners get off on the wrong foot. The _very_ wrong foot.**


	6. Chapter 6

No one really has much of an idea of how it happened. The facts were clear, what had happened, the people involved. How it ended up with all of them drinking in a tavern was not what most would call logical.

It had all started with a hanging.

Tomas had been the one to catch the hooded man, and Lord Lee had been the one to identify him as an assassin sent to kill Dondarrion.

The man himself insisted that he was _not _a Whitecloak and most definitely not a Lannister and claimed that it he was trying to _protect _Dondarrion and that it was Tomas and Lee who wanted the Lightning Lord dead in a more permanent fashion.

They'd thrown him in the closest thing to a dungeon they had before discussing what to do with the man.

It took two days to come to a decision.

Emotions were running high and since the man was accused of murdering Lord Beric Dondarrion it was a nigh unanimous vote to have the man hanged. The general idea being that Lord Beric was not due back for at least another week and what he did not know could not harm him.

Neither Tom Sevenstreams, Lem, Anguy or Gendry know how it happened, but as the impromptu scaffold was kicked out from beneath the man's feet, the man had let out a whistle - an eagle's cry - and a dozen men fell to arrows and knives from within their own number and the man was running for Dondarrion - who officially had the worst timing _ever-_ a small wood axe in hand.

Before anyone could do anything, the man who looked like a man of the North but was Dornish in colouring let out a wild yell and buried his axe in Tomas Hickey's back.

_What, _is the only reaction anyone can come up with and a stunned silence settles over them all before the forest clearing erupts into chaos.

Tom is the only one to hear the last snippets of the conversation between the two men- the murdered and the murderer.

It would make an excellent song, he says later, if only he had the context for what they spoke of.

It is Thoros who clears up the misunderstanding, and Mad Hat Steffan, Ser Duncan the Small and Clipper who explain their own actions, revealing the treachery of the dead.

The man called Connor Snow, they say is a friend to their Brotherhood. Connor Snow, the bastard from the North who is little older than Gendry has saved villages from bandits, damsels from distress, slain monster bears and lions, protected the small folk better than the Brotherhood on his own and apparently turned the tide of a battle by singlehandedly slaying a bloody path straight to Jon Pitcairn and killing him bloodily in front of his Lannister bannermen.

The man in front of Gendry, quiet and mild-mannered does not look like he is Aemon the Dragonknight returned.

True he is tall, well muscled and strong - that much is obvious given the way he flung men off of him as he had charged for Hickey - his colouring is the tanned copper of the South, but his features are that of a North man and the furs and feathers bring forth the impression of a wildling.

For a man who fights as brutally and bloodily as he does he is surprisingly gentle and there is almost a docility to the man that would make many never suspect him of harbouring a savage wolf within him.

He abhors physical contact, removing hands from his person in short, sharp movements, or violently jerking out of reach. He is as wary as a wild animal and the way he prowls the edges of the camp as he travels with them at Thoros' request, puts the image of a great, white wolf in Gendry's mind.

The only time Connor relaxes or pulls his hood down during his time with the Knights of the Hollow Hill is when they reach a small inn called 'The Mile's End' - a great deal further North then they would have preferred to be, but they were there nonetheless, where the Innkeeper, his wife and what seems to be the entire tavern stop their revelry and put up a cheer upon his entrance.

"Lord Connor!" "Captain!" "Connor m'boy!" "Cap'n!" "Connor's back! Lord Connor's back!"

The Brotherhood Without Banners and the Lightning Lord himself, the man who has died more than once, are summarily ignored in favour of their companion in white to be pulled into a celebration.

"Lord Connor?" Gendry asks Ser Duncan, confused by one form of address that is being used. "I thought he was a bastard?"

"Lad," the tall, red-headed man dubbed jokingly 'the Small' claps a hand against his back.

"Nobility is not something you have simply because your da was a king or his da's da was an emperor. A man's actions are what make him noble," Duncan says solmenly.

"A man's blood holds no bearing on his actions. What he does is of his own choosing. Connor's father could be the most treacherous, ruthless, conniving, smug, murdering son of a whore in all of Westeros, but Connor is a good man, like your Lightning Lord. And he's done more for these people than any 'lord' ever did for'em. If they want to call 'im Lord, they can. Seven knows he's tried to stop them from it." the big hedge knight finishes with a laugh.

Gendry is a little surprised by the vehemence in Duncan's voice as he lists the qualities Connor's father 'might' have, and somehow he doubts that Tywin Lannister is related to a Snow. There is history there somewhere but before Gendry can ask any questions he is interrupted by a familiar accented laugh.

"'E Also has more names, titles and monikers than there is gold in Casterly Rock!" Mad Hat Steffan exclaims setting a tankard in front of each of them.

"Bastard, lord, captain, mentor, Snow, Davenport, Connor, Rat...Radoon..." the man lists, counting each name off on his fingers.

It is hard to believe that the slightly drunk man in front of him, so genial and pleasant is the same man they call the mad butcher. According to hundreds of eye-witnesses, the man one day took a meat cleaver to several corrupt Goldcloaks in King's Landing and set off a massive riot throughout the entire city. He had to leave the city - how he did so unaided is something of a mystery to the others, though Gendry is willing to believe that Connor holds some role in that story.

The man struggles with getting his mouth around the last of Connor Snow's many names to no avail and Gendry wonders just what title is he having such difficulty with.

"Ratonhaké:ton," the man himself interjects quietly appearing behind Steffan like a ghost, the foreign syllables spilling easily from his mouth.

"Yes that one," Steffan merely nods while Gendry starts at the sudden presence of the man he had been asking about.

The name is none Gendry has ever heard and given the way the man slips out away from the crowd unnoticed even though Lord Beric had ordered them all to keep an eye on him, he wonders if that is exactly the way Connor Snow wants it to be.

* * *

**Author Note: The Westeros Brotherhood of Assassins in what I'm picturing works much differently from the chapters in Essos. Like there's what, 7 of them? They're spread a little thin and they have little if any contact with those in Dorne (At least there they've got a decent information network, but only one Assassin)**

**Achilles is technically Mentor, but he's stuck in his little Northern Village of Davenport, and so his 'novices' pretty much run roughshod over the whole 'chain of command' business. **

**Connor is their leader first and foremost, their loyalty is to him and he doesn't really have all that much time to train them with all the running around he does. He gives them general orders and leaves them to their own devices, trusting their judgement. Essentially letting them act as Master Assassins. They're all cool with that.**

**The Boston Assassins are with the Brotherhood in the Riverlands, though they make forays further North and South, making reports back to Achilles. The New York bunch are a mixed bag. Dobby in King's Landing, Colley in the North (its the hat) and Zenger hangs out with the Boston group on occasion when he's not running solo. **

**Up Next: Four times Ser Barristan the Bold encountered the Assassin Brotherhood in Essos.**


End file.
